


you are whatever a moon has always meant (this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart)

by mysteriesofloves



Series: the moon’s never seen me before (i’m reflecting light) [1]
Category: Gossip Girl (TV 2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, longing for the inherent romanticism of a coffee shop rn, the self indulgence is strong in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysteriesofloves/pseuds/mysteriesofloves
Summary: In the stuffy heat of the café, Henry’s nose blushes pink.
Relationships: Dan Humphrey/Blair Waldorf
Series: the moon’s never seen me before (i’m reflecting light) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2058447
Comments: 42
Kudos: 145





	you are whatever a moon has always meant (this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart)

**Author's Note:**

> lockdown equals simultaneous gossip girl and gilmore girls watches equals... this, whatever it is! long cheesy title for this cheesy holiday-ish fic comes from e.e. cummings. this ones for me, but if you like it too, i’m glad. i have lots of stuff coming so sit tight sweeties xx

In the stuffy heat of the café, Henry’s nose blushes pink. His cheeks, too. He gets that from her, his skin just as pale, just as susceptible to changes in weather. When he was little (he still _is_ little, to her) she would joke about putting him on top of the tree, her Christmas angel. Now, he’s taller than her, and he puts the star on himself. His smile spreads wide across his face as he laughs, and sometimes, it startles her. He looks just like his father when he smiles. But smiling was never something his father did often.

She can’t hear what they’re saying, him and Humphrey. She’s not sure she wants to know. A week ago, she came in to find out that Humphrey taught him how to shave. He’s baby-faced, and the hair on his chin was growing out in patches. She’d laughed it off with a _Oh, so Humphrey_ does _know how to shave_ but then went home and cried into her pillow because _her son learned how to shave in a public restroom._ Amongst other things. 

Humphrey leans over the counter, a withered little book in one hand, the other pointing to something on the open page of Henry’s notebook. As she gets closer, she hears Humphrey say, “Yeah, whatever, you little shit.”

“Language!” Blair scolds, dropping her bags onto the stool next to Henry with a _thump_ loud enough to turn a few heads.

Humphrey looks up, unfazed except for the way his face softens, just a little, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Quick, Waldorf, hide the drugs, your mom’s here.”

Henry, for his part, doesn’t look up at all. “You’re late.”

They’d fought before he left this morning. She was so swept up in his cherubic cheeks and perfect smile she’d almost forgotten. 

She hums. “I am, because I was picking up _this.”_ She delves into a large shopping bag, pulling out a crystal menorah, glittering under the café lights. Humphrey looks at her a little oddly. 

“Don’t you have a job to do?” she snips. Humphrey makes a show of standing up straight.

“Coffee or tea today, ma’am?”

“Coffee, preferably strong enough that it has its own heartbeat.”

He salutes, spinning around to make her a fresh cup. Blair turns back to Henry with a hopeful smile. 

“I overheard you talking to Cyrus about it so I thought, what the hell? If my mother can lead a blended household, so can I.”

Henry furrows his brows, but his lips are pursed in a familiar way that tells her he’s holding back a smile. 

“It’s kind of girly,” he says. 

“I don’t think so,” Humphrey interjects. “Ridiculous, maybe, but girly –“

“Do I pay you to talk?” she says, sticking it back in its tissue-paper filled bag. 

Humphrey grins. “You don’t pay me at all.” 

“I’ll pay off the tab when I’m satisfied with my service.”

Henry holds out for just a moment longer before saying, “I like it. Thanks.”

Her hand comes up, almost involuntarily, to smooth over his hair. It’s then she notices the mug in front of him, leaning over to inspect it. 

“Humphrey! You gave my son coffee on a school night?”

“I need it to study,” Henry says, craning to hold it out of her reach. 

Humphrey makes his way around the counter, lowering himself to her ear.

“It’s decaf,” he murmurs. “He doesn’t know.”

He slides the mug to her, a cappuccino with a heart. She rolls her eyes but smiles, almost involuntary too, her hand reaching out to lay over his. 

“Thank you,” she whispers back. 

His hand slips off the mug and onto the counter, resting there, under hers. When she takes a seat on a stool, it’s his Adam’s apple she’s eye-level with, rising and falling in his throat as he swallows. She pulls away, lifting the mug to blow on it.

“What’re you working on?”

“Dan’s helping me with my paper on Thoreau,” Henry says.

“Oh. Why didn’t you ask me for help?”

Henry shrugs. “You want me to do well and go to Yale, what difference does it make who I ask?”

Obviously, the fight had been about Yale, as it has been for months, ever since Ivy Week when Henry decided it wasn’t what he wanted anymore.

“You get to write a paper on transcendentalism and you chose Thoreau over Dickinson?”

“Dickinson isn’t really a transcendentalist,” Humphrey interrupts again _._ “I mean, the themes are there, but she wasn’t ever part of the movement itself. I voted for Whitman.”

“Neither of whom are named Henry.”

Humphrey’s mouth twitches, licking his lips, drawing the bottom between his teeth. When Blair takes a sip from her coffee, it’s still too soon, singeing at the tip of her tongue.

“His mother did his laundry for him, too.”

Henry gawks at her, cheeks blushing even rosier, that smile finally making an appearance for her. “You don’t do the laundry!”

Blair doesn’t look directly at Humphrey when she hears him laugh, but peripherally, she sees the column of his neck stretch out as he tips his head back. The coffee is still too hot.

The café exists within a perpetual oldies station, the heat on high, the windows fogged to the outside world. Over the rim of her cup, she watches Humphrey work, wiping wet hands on a dish towel and throwing it back onto his shoulder, humming along to Frankie Valli. When he looks up she looks away, and it’s Henry with an odd expression, now. Over the whir of the espresso machine, he says, “Dan’s going to teach me how to drive.”

Blair hums. “Is he going to buy you a car, too?”

“Depends how much I make in tips today,” Humphrey says, his back turned to them. “For the record, I said I’d only do it if you agreed.”

“Henry has mastered the art of conveniently leaving out parts of conversations for his benefit.”

“I learned from the best.” Henry holds his mug up wordlessly, and Humphrey picks up the pot of secret-decaf, topping him off. 

“Seems like a lot of bags for one menorah,” Humphrey says.

“Well, I may have gotten a bit distracted and decided to get a head start on gift shopping this year. Don’t worry, Humphrey, there’s a bag here dedicated just to you.”

Humphrey laughs again, curls falling over his forehead as he shakes his head. Her fingers lift from the cup before setting back on it. Numb from the cold, the heat of it buzzes them back to life. She says, “I’m not joking.”

He looks over and then away, and then over again. Henry says, “Mother _never_ jokes about gift giving.”

“Gives you an apt amount of time to return whatever it is.”

“Now that’s just rude. Why would I do that?”

“Because I don’t need anything _.”_

“Are you familiar with the concept of gift giving? You don’t _need_ to need it. But come Christmas you’ll see just how much potential you’ve been wasting.”

Humphrey does that thing with his mouth again that makes Blair all dizzy, and she gulps back too much coffee, burning the back of her throat. 

“Potential?” Humphrey says.

“As the owner of this establishment you want to project a certain image. How is anyone ever going to buy a painting if they don’t respect the person selling them?”

“You don’t think I’m respectable?” 

“I think you have a potty mouth and you drive a used car.”

His elbows drop, propping up his chin in his hand, leaning in real close. Espresso eyes, dark lashes fluttering over creamer-coloured skin, the corner of his mouth tugged up as if by a marionette string. They’ve been playing this little cat and mouse game for long enough that Blair forgets who was supposed to be who. Sometimes, she is inexplicably charmed by him. 

“You know what I think?” he says. “I think you’re full of shit.”

She scoffs, smacking the side of Humphrey’s head in lieu of a dignified response. 

“Ow. So much anger in such a little person.”

“I like Dan’s car,” Henry interjects. “It’s the kind of car I want.”

“You see what you’ve done?” she says, poking Humphrey in the chest. “You’ve corrupted him.”

“You left me some great groundwork.”

“Now he thinks this unwashed bohemian hipster shtick is something to aspire to.”

“I’m still right here, guys.”

She picks up the bags and switches seats with them, so she can peer over Henry’s shoulder to see what he’s written so far. She sniffs, the dull smell of smoke stuck to his blazer. Her stomach turns.

“Here,” Humphrey says, the clatter of a dish set down on the countertop cutting her short. “Eat.”

She frowns down at the plate, a turkey sandwich. “No, thank you.”

In her line of vision, Humphrey’s hands spread out on the counter as he leans over. 

“You think she’s eaten today?”

Henry shakes his head. And to think she raised a traitor.

Humphrey grins, says, “If you eat this there’s a slice of raspberry rhubarb pie in your future.”

She lays her hand over his once again, tapping a fingertip on his knuckle. “Why don’t we skip dinner and go straight to dessert?”

Humphrey doesn’t clear his throat, but she hears the start of it, eyes catching that same pulse. He looks between her and Henry, who remains unamused at their silly games. 

“Mm-mm,” Humphrey hums, and it’s him that pulls his hand away first this time. 

“What happened to the customer’s always right?”

“Customer implies you’ll be paying for the meal. You could return whatever overpriced bullsh– _crap_ that’s in that bag and pay off the tab instead.”

It’s a set of aquamarine plates for the café and two wool flannels, earth-toned, warmer and more durable than the ones he wears. Sometimes, she wants to dump a pot of hot coffee on his head.

“Would you eat, please? You get neurotic when you’re hungry.”

“She’s always neurotic,” Henry says. 

“She is. It’s her second greatest asset.”

Blair frowns. “What’s the first?”

Humphrey pushes the plate closer, still smiling when he turns around. “Not around the kid.”

She moves to hit him again, but he jumps back, dodging it with a laugh.

Henry groans, reaching over to grab half of the sandwich. In the stuffy heat of the café, Blair blushes pink.

*

“I invited Dan to the game.”

The wine glass pauses at her mouth as she mutes the television. In her lap, Cat stirs. 

“What?”

Henry’s head, wet hair curling in the heat of the apartment, appears around the corner. “I invited Dan to the game,” he repeats, slower this time, like she’s stupid.

“I thought I was going to your game.”

He smiles, wry, and her heart skips a beat. During her worst moments, as she marked new heights on the bathroom wall, she’d wondered what she’d done to deserve this; a boy who would never look like her. She could think of a few too many things.

“It’s the finals, not a gala. There’s no limit on invitations. Anyway, you hate soccer –“

“But I _love_ you.”

“– and Dan loves _it._ I thought it would be fun. Are you mad?”

“No, baby.” She stretches out to place the wine glass on the coffee table, disturbing Cat’s sleep. Henry plops down next to them, the whole gangly mess of him, skin still humid from the hot shower, red and splotchy. She brushes his hair off his forehead, and comes away with the waxy residue of the curling product she’d bought for him months back that he refused to use. She rubs it between the pads of her fingers, considering him.

“Have you been smoking?”

He scoops Cat up and deposits her in his lap. “You’re being evasive.”

“I asked you a question.”

Henry shrugs, reaching for the remote, which she holds tight to her chest. 

“You can have the cat but I draw the line at the remote. Why do you really want Dan there?”

“I told you. He likes soccer.”

“Is it because the other boys’ dad’s will be there and yours won’t?”

“God, Mom, I’m not seven. I invited him because _he likes soccer.”_

The condescending tone makes a reappearance, and that’s all her. She shifts closer to him, scratching at Cat’s ear. She lowers her head to rest her cheek on his shoulder, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath in. Fresh laundry and the warm musk of his soap. 

“It’s a filthy habit,” she says. “You have such beautiful teeth, sweetheart.”

Henry’s shoulder moves in what might be a quiet laugh or just another shrug. With her eyes still closed, she hands him the remote. Henry sighs. “You don’t have a lot of friends, Mom.”

She lifts her head suddenly, the room spinning. “I have friends.”

“You have _employees.”_

“What are you getting at?” she says, narrowing her eyes as if to inspect him. “You invited Dan because you want us to be friends?”

“You already _are_ friends,” he says. “I mean, what’re you going to do once I leave for Yale? I don’t want you to be alone all the time.”

“I’ll get another cat,” she says.

 _“Mother,”_ he says. 

She bites the inside of her cheek. He has his eyes and his smile but he’s still _her._ He’s still hers.

 _“Henry,”_ she says. “Is this some attempt at reverse psychology to get me to agree to no Yale?”

“Actually, I’m angling for his car.” He smirks at her look, shaking his head. “No, Mom, I mean it. He’s always talking about you –“

“He – what’s he say?”

“How smart you are, and how he admires your work ethic, and how you’re so pretty, and you smell nice –“

She pulls the throw pillow out from behind her, pushing it over his face. Cat is not happy about it.

“You’re just making things up!”

“I’m not!”

“You’re the offspring of the queen of liars. I see right through you, mister.”

She settles back into her spot on the couch, picking Cat up and cradling her in her arms, nuzzling her nose against her head, the way she’d done with Henry when he was a baby. She misses it sometimes, despite the sleepless nights and near breakdowns, him being small enough to hold him close to her, to wrap him up and keep him safe. Blair had excelled at everything she put her mind to, and motherhood was never going to be any different, even if she had to do it earlier than she planned to, even if she had to do it alone.

Being alone was something Blair had excelled at, too.

Blair was a lonely teenage girl and then, very suddenly, she wasn’t — she was a mother. She had grown another life before she had even grown up herself. She’d been determined to raise him with her own two hands, no help, because she knew she could, because he was hers. 

Cat, however, is less fond of the position than Henry had been, crying out and slipping from her hug onto the couch between them. Henry sets a hand on her back, scratching idly. 

“When I leave, how are you going to get things down from the top shelf?”

“I’ll climb onto the counter.”

“And fall off and crack your skull? I won’t have it, Mother. You need someone around to look after you.”

“I don’t need to be looked after.”

“Yes you do,” Henry says. “That’s what we do. We look after each other.”

They sit in filled silence. When she sets her empty glass, stained a dull, dark purple, back on the table, Henry takes a long look at it. He says, “Dan’s lonely.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. 

*

When the cheques come, and they always do, she inevitably feels that pull, the magnet buried deep in the tissue of her heart. After all these years, with not a single one cashed, he still sends them like clockwork. She commends his persistence. Or perhaps his ignorance.

 _You could buy me a car with that,_ Henry had said last time, when he’d been the one to collect the mail. 

_You don’t want that,_ she said.

_A car? I’m sorry, have we met? Hi, I’m Henry Waldorf._

She said, _We don’t want his money._

She rips it up. Then, she picks up the phone.

“Hey. I was just thinking about you.”

“Dirty thoughts, I hope.”

“Always. Casablanca’s on TV.”

“Why do you think I called?”

“Dirty reasons, I’d hoped. _Of all the coffee shops in all the towns in all the world…”_

“That joke stopped being funny around the thousandth time you made it.”

 _“...she walks into mine._ And eats all my pie.”

“Shush. I told Henry he could start those driving lessons if he got an A on the Thoreau paper.”

“And?”

“Are you free Saturday?”

“Absolutely. You wanna come along? I could teach you a thing or two.”

“No, thank you, I’ve swallowed enough of my pride already.” 

“Try not to choke.”

*

The November sky gives in early, but always gives in, sunset and sunrise becoming one entity — the dark grey of the whole day breaking apart against the sun just before it sets, searing golden around the city, blushing pink like her cheeks, her nose, as she steps into the café. It’s an apt metaphor, she thinks, for the feeling — the grey day and the sunlit break. 

There’s an uncharacteristic swarm of customers bustling around, overflowing the tables and milling in the gallery space. Humphrey has coffee spilled on his sweater, and his hair looks like it’s been run through so many times it might start falling out, but when he looks up, it’s like the rest of the chaos ceases to exist. He makes the end of every work day feel like the beginning of the weekend. 

Blair finds herself looking forward to that little moment during her day, that moment when he’ll look up, catch her eye, and smile — ever since the first time she walked in, makeup melted off from the heat in the back of the cab during rush hour, pressing a glossy kiss to Henry’s forehead with a stage-whisper of, _Sweetheart, how the hell did you find this place?_

Blair had always planned on thrusting her affinity for art upon her children, and had been pleased to find in Henry the same inclination that she had, passed down like her last name. While most kids were climbing jungle gyms, breaking arms and skinning knees, Henry was running through the Cloisters, rolling toy cars on the steps of the Met, walking hand-in-hand with her through room after room of the Morgan. While it took a grieving period to get over the fact that he favoured Twombly and Basquiat over Degas and Manet (the way he favoured Elvis over Audrey and Kafka over Keats), it was what had drawn Henry to the gallery-slash-café in the first place. He had fallen in love instantly, and while it took her some time, she’d grown to love a little more than just the place, too. 

She lingers in the gallery in front of a canvas with a bizzaro-abstract display of molten wax dripping on it until a spot at the counter opens up, and she pushes patrons aside with her purse to get to it. 

“What the hell is going on in here?”

“Some blogger called us Chelsea’s _greatest hidden treasure,_ which is ironic because once you announce that something is a hidden treasure it becomes a lot less hidden and then it loses that treasurable quality, which is why nothing ever lasts in this city.” He takes a deep breath, looking at her properly and smiling. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says back. 

“Kid’s not here yet, so you’re stuck with unfiltered me.”

She raises a brow. “ _Ooh._ Say something dirty.”

He leans in, looking like he’s trying not to smile and failing miserably. “Something dirty.”

“The dad jokes might be cuter if you weren't a perpetual bachelor.”

He blinks away, hands stuttering, spilling the artfully crafted latte he’d just been ready to serve, coffee splashing out of its cup and pooling in the saucer. He curses under his breath, turning around to clean it up. 

“You’re in a good mood. I take it your birdbrain party ran smoothly last night.”

“It was a fundraiser for the endangered Snowy Owl, and it went magnificently, thank you very much. Plus, Millie Barnaby is having her place redone and I sent her to my favourite art dealer –“

“I knew that Madison Avenue asshole Nathan Prescott would steal my business out from under me.”

“– _And_ since it’s well known that my taste in all things is beyond exquisite, you’ll have a flood of art buyers with endless cheque books here within the week.”

He pulls the dish towel from his shoulder, wiping his hands off. She always gets a little entranced watching him work, as he goes to fix the drink, strong hands moving delicately, putting care into everything he does. 

She can imagine the way he would touch her, how his hands would span the size of her waist, her chest, her thighs. Attentive and reverent, like the way he looks at her. She doesn’t think she’s ever been touched like that. 

“Maybe one of your PTA moms can help me out with the perpetual bachelor thing,” he mutters, circling around the counter to serve the coffee to a table behind her. 

She swivels in her seat, raising a brow. “Coffee boy and housewife hedge trimmer. A man of many talents.”

He grins, shaking his head a little, looking at her like he can’t quite believe she exists. All of a sudden, the cacophony in the café seems to hush. But maybe it’s just in her head. 

Still smiling, he says quietly, “All in a day’s work.”

He holds up a finger, ducking into the back and emerging a few moments later with a large slice of pie and a steaming cup of coffee. 

“For the birthday girl.”

She squeals — the kind of squeal only Henry has gotten out of her, when he begrudgingly agrees to watch Audrey movies with her — wasting no time before pressing her fork into the warm crust, the bright red filling spilling out of its sides and onto the plate. 

Humphrey makes her feel different than anyone else ever has, in that she doesn’t have to be anything but herself. When he looks at her, like the way he’s looking at her now, she knows he sees her as more than just what she’s supposed to be, more than just who she’s standing next to. 

“You think I can get everyone in here to sing happy birthday?” 

“If you’d like to live to see tomorrow you won’t chance it.”

She holds up a bite for him, maneuvering the fork around like she did with Henry when he was a baby, and Humphrey laughs, the corners of his eyes creasing and his head shaking again, then he takes it. She takes the fork into her own mouth after, sucking off the leftover filling. He spills more coffee.

After making it through another burgeoning crowd of hipsters, Humphrey returns to her spot at the counter with a slim silver box, wrapped up with a pretty little bow.

“I got you a present,” he says, setting it on the counter, their hands brushing as she eagerly reaches for it.

His hand stays there, thumb swiping over the length of her index finger. She thinks of the miracle of light, the first lit candle, the star on the top of the tree, all of it making her feel like she’s bursting splendidly at the seams. She thinks that’s what this is, these feelings for him that have become too big for her to ignore. 

She tugs at the small bow, coming apart with little fanfare, and opens the box to a neatly folded receipt. 

“What’s this?”

“I cleared your tab.”

She blinks at it, then at him. “There’s no way it was this much.”

He ducks his chin, that marionette-string smile playing at his lips. “There’s something else there too.”

He lets her stare at the receipt for another moment before clarifying, “That piece in the gallery you’ve been eyeing.”

The receipt flutters down into her lap, but her hands stay where they are, frozen in place, the tips of her fingers throbbing like they’ve been pricked on a thorn.

“No,” she manages. “That’s too much. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Are you familiar with the concept of gift giving?”

“It’s not funny,” she says, picking the receipt up and flattening it out on the counter. “You can’t afford this. If I couldn’t afford this, then you definitely can’t afford this.”

He shrugs. “I’ll manage. Henry mentioned that you haven’t bought yourself something nice in a while, and he thinks it’s because you don’t want your parents paying for college, but I could tell how much you wanted it.”

 _“Henry_ said that?” she shakes her head, bringing her elbows onto the counter. It’s taking everything in her to not bury her burning face in her hands, settling instead for pinching the bridge of her nose sharply.

“Was that… should I have not said that?”

“I don’t want it,” she says, working to keep her voice from shaking. Her hands aren’t cooperating as much. “I don’t – just return it, whatever, I don’t want it.”

Humphrey runs a hand through his hair, muttering, “I know it’s no diamond necklace but I thought you would like it.”

The heel of her shoe hits the stool with a _ping_ as her heart thrums in her ribcage, dropping to her stomach like a pinball machine.

“How do you know about that?”

He stalls, mouth hanging open but no words coming out. Her heart creeps back up, like it’s lodging itself in her windpipe. The double-edged sword that brandishes everything she does twists in her gut, cutting her open and spilling out like the pie filling. _You will always do your best. It will never be good enough._

She stands so suddenly she trips, grabbing onto the edge of the counter so she doesn’t topple over. Humphrey’s hands come over hers, quick but still gentle, and she throws them off. 

“Who do you think you are? You serve coffee for a living, Humphrey. You don’t get to take pity on me.”

“That’s not what –“

“You think because my son’s been using you in lieu of a school guidance counsellor that you hold some stake in our lives? I haven’t needed a man for sixteen years and I’m not about to start.”

The noise in the café really does come to a halt, ceasing like a coda. Humphrey stares at her, dumbstruck, then reaches out again, his hand ghosting over her elbow as she whips around.

“Blair, that isn’t at all –“

He’s cut off by the harsh clang of the door shutting behind her, separating her from the warmth of the café, leaving her out in the bitter New York cold. 

  
  


*

As she curls up in bed — the Harry Winston box cleaned up from where it had been carelessly discarded on her dresser, instead wrapped back up and dropped carelessly back into the mailbox — she starts to devise her plan. She hardly remembers the last time she hatched a takedown, but she’s sure it’s embedded in her like muscle memory. A bad review from one of those bloggers should do it, or a health department violation, if she’s feeling particularly nasty, which she is. She’s brought down bigger businessmen than Dan Humphrey, but there’ll be a certain pride to watching that stupid pseudo-intellectual hotspot shutter its doors.

Through the wall, she hears Henry laugh. She takes another gulp of wine. 

It won’t, really. It’ll make her feel awful, actually, more awful than she does right now, because all she really wants to do is call him, hear his voice and the smile that twists through it. She knows, if he figures out she was behind it, that she’ll never get to again.

  
  


*

She can feel Henry’s eyes on her from where he sits at the breakfast bar, his cheeks puffed out as he munches on a bite from his third slice of pizza. She’s seriously considering etiquette lessons. 

“I think we should invite Dan for Thanksgiving dinner.”

She sighs without looking up from her magazine. “He’s not a stray dog, baby. We don’t need to feed him.”

His bare feet pad along the hardwood floor, nudging her feet aside so he can drop his weight onto the couch.

“Use a napkin,” she says, still not looking up. He waves one in her face like a little white flag. 

“Dan doesn’t have anyone to celebrate with this year. He said he’d be working. Why can’t he come with us to Grandma’s?”

“Because Grandma would have an aneurysm.”

“Which sounds like something you would be thankful for.”

“Don’t snark at me,” she says, sighing again, exhausted from her day, the long hot soak she’d taken in the bath doing nothing to release the tension mounting in all her joints. She pretends she doesn’t know what the real remedy is, because that’s still off the table. 

She sets her magazine down, sticking her feet into Henry’s lap. His face scrunches up, but he lets her. 

“Thanksgiving is our thing. Rolling our eyes at Eleanor’s friends and eating so much of Grandpa’s pumpkin pie we feel sick.”

“Two activities that would also cater to the interests of Dan Humphrey.”

He’s right, so she ignores him. “What’s next, we invite him ice-skating?”

Henry’s eyes drop to her feet. So there goes that.

“I don’t understand, I thought you were happy with the way things were, that you didn’t need –“

“I am happy, Mom. But that’s the thing, this isn’t about me.”

She wants to wrap him up and tuck him back inside her, the strongest, smartest boy she’s ever known. Instead, she shifts to curl against him. 

“It’s always just been us, Henry. You’re the only man in my life.”

“I don’t have to be.”

 _You’re the only person who hasn’t left me,_ she thinks but does not say, because she knows what it’s like to have spine-cracking pressures to carry. Instead, she says quietly, “All my relationships fall apart.”

“You’re making excuses,” Henry whispers back, and Blair is reminded of a hundred nights spent just like this, a hundred excuses she’s made to stave off happiness.

  
  


*

She’s starting to lose feeling in her cheeks. Her nose, her ears, pretty much every part of her that isn’t tightly wrapped up to keep warm. Deadened leaves crunch under her heels, over and over, as she paces back and forth on the curb. Henry said he’d be out in a few minutes to meet her, since she refused to step back inside that house of hipsters, but her body temperature is rapidly dropping to corpse-level while waiting. It’s either the café or the record shop next to it, with the older not-so-gentleman owner who comes just a little too close when he talks to her. She seriously considers the latter for a minute before swallowing her pride and opening the frosted door.

Humphrey looks up, and for a moment, she forgets why she was even mad in the first place. But then he looks back down at his notepad like she’s not even there, and — okay, still furious.

 _Where the F are you???_ she types out with numb fingers.

Not a second later, Henry responds, _language!_

_You are so grounded._

_talk to him_

She takes a seat at the small empty table by the door, if only because she _really_ needs to get her body heat back up before she braves the cold again to flag down a cab. She sends Henry a middle finger emoji.

The door opens and shuts with a gust of cold wind just as a steaming cup of tea is set down on the table. Peppermint, by the smell of it.

“Kid’s not here.”

“I know,” she mumbles. “He tricked me. Sneaky son of a bitch.”

A plate with a cookie follows the cup. _Goddamit,_ she thinks. 

“This is the part when you say, _yeah, no kidding,_ and I hit you with my purse or something.”

Humphrey’s still taking an interest in the notepad. He says, “You want anything else?”

He’s tense, shifting fingers, sleeves rolled to his elbows, veins in his forearms strained. She pulls her eyes up to his face, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. It rings through her like the stupid jingle of the song on the radio: _you, you, you._

“It’s way too early for Christmas music.”

He waves his hand vaguely behind him. “Stereo broke. Stuck on this station.”

“Wow,” she says. “Four word sentences. Usually I can’t get you to shut up.”

He sighs, dropping into the seat opposite her. He taps his fingers on the table, a rhythmless tune. She blows on her tea.

“I’m sorry. I know I’m not your – you know, and I’m not Henry’s – you know, and the last thing I wanted was to intrude. I shouldn’t have said… any of the things I said, and I know the painting was too much, and I’m just so sorry for overstepping.”

She presses her lips to the rim of her cup to keep from smiling. “Are you done?”

He swallows, nods. “Yeah, I think so.”

“It’s okay, Dan. I’ll admit I overreacted.”

His wide-eyed plea blinks away, replaced with a look of soft surprise. 

“What?”

“Uh – nothing,” he says. “You just... you said my name.”

“Dan?” she repeats, and just like that, he cracks, face splitting out into a smile. Just like that, heat floods over her whole body.

“I’m sorry I said all those things. When I get angry I’ll say anything, I don’t care who I hurt. You do mean a lot to Henry. And to me.”

His lips part, the soft surprise only deepening. He blows out a breath, staring down at his tapping fingers. 

“Sorry we fought on your birthday. I feel really shitty about that.”

“I’ve had worse. Fights and birthdays.” She splits the cookie, handing him half. “You didn’t sell that painting, did you?”

He takes it, shaking his head. 

“I really do love it.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s yours if you want it.”

“I do,” she says. “Thank you, Dan.”

His small, wistful smile spurs all the numb parts of her back to life. She reaches across the table, brushing away chocolate crumbs from the corner of his mouth. She feels him holding his breath. 

He rolls his eyes. “Mom mode never sleeps.”

She laughs, and as it fizzles out, it leaves an ache in her chest in its wake. 

“What else has he said to you?”

Dan pauses, head tipping side to side like he’s sorting through thoughts. Finally, he says, “Talks about his dad, sometimes. And… he likes someone. He was vague about it. He wants to ask them to a snowball, whatever the hell that is, and he asked me how he should do it.”

“Snowflake Ball,” Blair says quietly. “What did you tell him?”

He shrugs a little. “That if he does it at all he’s got more guts than me.”

She rests her hand over his to make him stop fidgeting, and he turns his palm up, twisting their fingers together. 

“Why would he tell you and not me?”

“I didn’t tell my mom about that stuff when I was his age.”

“Your mom wasn’t around when you were his age.”

She peeks up at him to see if she’s gone too far again, but Dan looks unfazed. With raised brows, he says, “Did you tell _your_ mom everything?”

“That’s different,” she says. “I am not my mother.”

Dan nods like he believes her, and it makes her want to believe herself.

  
  


*

From little league and lacrosse to piano recitals and school plays, Henry’s tried everything, and Blair’s been there for it all, his biggest fan. It was the first promise she made, when the little pink stick reflected back twin lines. She knew what it felt like to look out into a crowd of smiling faces and know that none of them were really there for you, the way you so wanted them to be. She had promised herself, and effectively him, her hands pressed flush to her stomach, that she would always be there, that he would always get to look out and see her cheering him on.

Politely reserved cheering, of course. 

Dan, however, stands with his hands cupped around his mouth as he calls out Henry’s name, every _wooo!_ getting only partially lost in the heavy wind at the top of the bleachers. She futilely tries to tug him back down, laughing so hard her stomach hurts, and she doesn’t even care that people are staring, that the mothers who smile to her face but whisper behind her back aren’t even trying to hide it now. 

  
  


He’s five-feet ten-inches of sweaty, muddy, teenage boy, but he throws an arm around her shoulder and squeezes her close before she can protest, and it’s like he’s her little boy again. 

  
  


The boys go off to celebrate their win, and Dan, breath in the air and eyes jumping from her to the ground and back again, asks if she wants to come back to his so he can make up for the shitty styrofoam cup hot chocolate. She shakes her head, linking her arm through his, and says, _Could you make me something stronger?_

Outside, it starts to rain again. Inside the loft above the café, she watches him move around the cramped kitchen, stirring honey into two mugs of bourbon. 

She sees it now — what Henry meant. It’s in the way he carries himself, hunched shoulders and fidgeting hands, the downturn of his lips. She thinks he’s been alone for too long. 

His eyes don’t leave her as he moves to the couch, setting the mugs on the coffee table, taking a seat. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, shy all of a sudden, blushing like the teenager she never let herself be. 

His arm props up against the back of the couch, her shoulder nudging it as she takes a seat. “I’ve never seen you in jeans before. You’re always dressed like Eva Marie Saint in _North by Northwest.”_

“Is this bringing up undiscovered soccer mom fantasies for you?”

He hums, nodding. “It’s a shame you can’t drive a van. That would’ve really done it for me.”

Tentatively, she shifts closer. The moment his arm slides down to settle around her shoulder, she curls into him. 

“He looked great out there, didn’t he?”

“He looked just like you,” Dan says. 

“You think so?”

“I can see you in everything he does. It’s sweet.”

She fiddles with the top button on his flannel, pretending she can’t feel how hard his heart is beating. Pretending hers isn’t beating just as hard.

“Then why does it feel like I’m losing him?”

“Maybe because the older he gets the more he reminds you of yourself.”

And the older she got, the more she lost herself, her true self, and that’s the last thing she wants for him. 

“I know my advice is completely unwarranted considering I don’t have kids, but maybe you shouldn’t make him go to Yale just because you didn’t get to.”

She closes her eyes, tucking her nose against his shirt. His hand comes up to carefully palm over her hair.

“He’s a great kid.”

“He is. I really lucked out with him.”

“It’s not luck,” Dan says. “It’s you.”

“Sometimes I wonder what he would’ve been like if he’d had someone like you in his life, earlier on. A nice man. Consistent, and kind, and... fun.”

“You didn’t need one,” he says. “You did really well on your own.”

“I know,” she says, clearing away the lump in her throat. “But… as much as I pride myself on not needing it, I really, really want it.”

His hand runs down her arm, tucking around her waist. Into the collar of his shirt, she whispers, “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad you invited me,” he says. “When Henry said that you wanted me to come with you… it made me so happy, Blair.”

Her head lifts to blink up at him, then settles back with a small smile. She taught him well. 

Dan continues, “You make me so happy. You know that, right?”

She presses her ear to his chest, listening to the sonorous thrum of his heart, in line with the rain beating down against the windows. “I do now.”

  
  


*

The penthouse remains as untouchable as ever, ghosts of stilted Thanksgiving’s past wandering the halls, covered over in tablecloth. Henry picks at the marshmallow on his sweet potatoes, his cheek propped in his hand and his phone hidden in his lap, thoroughly disinterested in the chorus of shallow conversation. Under the table, she kicks his foot.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

He grins, setting down his fork. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’ll fill the tupperware, you steal the pie.”

  
  


The café is as empty as the streets, but Dan wipes down the counter in circles anyway. He looks up when the door opens. _This is it,_ she thinks. _This is coming home._

“Hey, Waldorfs.”

“We’re fugitives,” Blair says, holding up her armful of tupperware. “Henry was one question about college away from sticking a fork in his eye.”

“We come bearing Harold’s pumpkin pie,” Henry says, taking a seat at a table and prying the tinfoil off the top. 

They eat there, in the middle of the otherwise empty café, a new (used) stereo crooning the oldies out once again. Henry recounts, animatedly, Eleanor’s two near meltdowns before dinner, and she sees their resemblance more than ever, the roll of his eyes, the purse of his lips, all her. 

Dan slings an arm around the back of her chair, idly tracing patterns along her shoulder. She thinks it might be the best Thanksgiving she’s had.

  
  


The kitchen in the back of the café is even more cramped than the one above it, huddled together over the small sink, under low fluorescent lights. She washes and he dries, his hand on the small of her back each time he reaches past her, until there’s nothing left, and it stays there anyway. 

“Mother’s going to freak when she realizes what we did,” she says, moving to shut the tap off. “I hope someone gets it on tape.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says. “But it was really nice that you did.”

His curls fall over his eyes, and she reaches up, brushing them away. Her hand stays there, cupping his cheek, fingers tentatively drawing over his stubble.

“It was Henry’s idea,” she says. “He thinks you’re lonely.”

Dan shrugs, not meeting her eye, but leans into the touch. 

“I don’t like sharing things that are mine. But I guess he’s become a little bit yours, hasn’t he?” Her thumb sweeps over his cheekbone. “And in the process, I suppose I’ve become a little bit yours, too.”

He’s just looking at her, smiling like he can’t quite believe it. Breathless, he says, “Yeah?”

Her hand moves down along his jaw, touching her thumb lightly to his bottom lip. “Yeah.”

His face is lit up like a Christmas tree, eyes twinkling in the glow of the kitchen lights. He says, so quiet she barely hears him, “I’ve been a little bit yours for a while now.”

She tips up, not having to move far, and kisses him. It takes him half a moment to catch up, the soft noise he makes trapped between them as he kisses her back slowly. She presses her hands into his lower back, over the worn flannel of his shirt, and he molds against her, curling her completely in his arms, his kiss a little deeper, more insistent. If she’d known Humphrey was this good at this, she would’ve laid one on him a lot sooner. 

They pull apart, a little dazed. Dan laughs, a small, winded sound. 

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she says back. He runs a thumb over her cheek, his lips following its trail, peppering kisses over her face until meeting her mouth again.

“Okay, more than a little,” he mumbles between kisses, and she laughs against him before being cut off by him taking her bottom lip into his mouth, sucking gently. A soft moan slips out before she can stop it, and he muffles it, and his own, inside another kiss. 

“What’s taking so long?” 

Dan breaks away, startled, his face dropping into her neck, muffled laughter pressing kisses over her pulse.

“We’re almost done,” Blair calls back.

There’s a beat, then another, then: “Oh, gross!”

Blair’s head tips back on a laugh, inviting Dan’s mouth to kiss along the column of her throat. 

Henry calls, “Does this mean I get the car?”


End file.
